Dig Another Grave
by IronAmerica
Summary: Alive or dead? How do you tell? Is it the breaths you take, or the ones you don't? Danny should be figuring this out...


So, it's a new story. This is to assuage my own Danny-related fears.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Dig Another Grave

I remember dying in an explosion. I think I died.

If I hadn't, they wouldn't have buried me—I'd be with Charlie, and Uncle Miles, and Aaron, and Rachel and that woman—Nora. So I guess I did die in that explosion, in the diner. It's odd, isn't it? I should be panicking now, because I've been buried. I should be scared and crying, like Charlie used to. (Charlie was always afraid of small, dark places. She cried at night, sometimes, when the lamp burned out. I pretended to be afraid then, so she could push her fears away and be strong.)

I think I understand her now.

I'm scared.

But I'm supposed to be dead. Why am I scared?

I…

I want to go home. I want dad, and Charlie, and Aaron. I want everything to go back to normal. This isn't normal. I'm scared. If I'm dead, I shouldn't be scared. I should be peaceful. I'll be able to see Maggie soon. She'll make me tea again. Charlie told me Maggie died, on the journey to come rescue me. Another death at my feet. Please forgive me, Maggie. I didn't mean it. I…

I'm sorry.

You shouldn't have come.

Maybe now that I've been buried, I'll finally stop having asthma attacks. It's funny. I can feel my lungs constricting. I can't breathe. Even the exercises aren't helping. I'm seeing spots of red now. Maggie said that was one of the first signs of suffocation. I can hear her reciting the signs in her cold, clinical tone that she always got when she was talking about medicine. It's the same way she talked to Caleb when she couldn't avoid it.

I…I'll see you soon, Maggie.

Suffocation was never how I wanted to die. I wanted to grow up, and have kids. I wanted to learn how to paint, and climb trees with Charlie. I wanted to do the things that dad said I'd never be able to do. I wanted Uncle Miles to approve of me. I only knew him a day—a few, maybe, if I was lucky—but I _know_ I wanted his approval. He was strong. Tough. Charlie looked up to him with stars in her eyes. My tough, strong sister who was never afraid of anything, looking up to some guy. I'd laugh, but I can't breathe anymore.

There was a lot I wanted to do. I was going to ride a horse. Uncle Miles promised we'd get horses before we made for the Georgia border. I wanted to try that. It was something dad said I'd never be able to do.

Stupid asthma.

You ruined my life.

I could have been the strong one; the one Charlie looked up to. I could have escaped the Militia. Maybe dad would still be alive… Maybe, maybe, maybe.

It's funny. Dying gives you a new perspective.

My face is wet. I haven't been crying. But two of my ribs are broken. At least one of them must have punctured a lung. So it's not suffocation at all—I'm drowning in my own blood.

Hooray.

Maggie's voice is back, giving me a clinical analysis of my chances of survival. I won't be making it out of this, that's for sure. I've been buried. Traditionally, bodies are burned so the Militia—or anyone else, really—can't desecrate them or do other horrible things. But Uncle Miles and mom—the woman I don't really know, not as well as I might have, had circumstances not been what they were—must be traditionalists. In the pre-blackout sense, I mean. They'd have buried me.

That doesn't make it any better.

I'm still scared, still suffocating, and now I may be drowning in my own blood.

This is a wonderful way to end a life: Drowning in blood, suffocating, and talking to myself.

Well, I suppose there are worse ways I could die (could have died? Did die? Whatever). Sergeant Strausser could have tortured me to death. Not that he wasn't in the process of doing that already.

…

The lack of oxygen is making me crazy. Not that the Militia wasn't doing a good job of that before the rescue, but this is just _nuts_. Maggie would, if she were still alive, be berating me for being a moron, and telling me to take matters into my own hands. Uncle Miles—if he were dead, I mean—would tell me to claw my way out of the grave. Charlie would do it. Mom would just trick her way out. She was good at that…

I'm still scared. Going crazy, drowning in my own blood, and suffocating, but…still scared. I don't want to die in a box. I don't care if I'm supposed to be dead by now.

I'm _scared._

Being scared, as it turns out, is a wonderful thing. Especially when one is about to die. Is dead. Is trying to come back to life. (I _promise_, as soon as I figure out what's going on when I'm not oxygen-deprived, I will explain that to myself. Honest.)

Punching a hole through wood: Good. Being buried in the dirt rushing in: Bad.

Final score: Danny: 1. Imminent death: 0.

I crawled back onto real earth, the hardpacked kind that isn't trying to murder me by suffocation, and began coughing. Just my luck: It's also raining. That means that, not only am I covered in dirt and my own blood, I'm also getting muddy. What a way to start the day.

Really, I'm having the time of my life.

As soon as I catch my breath, I, Danny Matheson, will figure out if I'm alive or dead.

Honestly, I hope I'm dead.

It'll hurt less when I wake up.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Think I can handwave deaths away? Drop a line and let me know.

A/N: This is my first attempt in recent years to write first-person from a character's pov. Let me know how I did?


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